


steady as she goes

by Aerielz



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Set Somewhere in s05/06, Spoiler: s05e02, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerielz/pseuds/Aerielz
Summary: It's Charlotte's birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (insert something about not owning the characters here)
> 
> Unbetaed work, unfortunately. There might be typos.
> 
>  _Important note_ : although everything happens in a more or less light-hearted way, I recognize some stuff here might be triggerish. If I tag what, exactly, it'll spoil some aspects of the story, so, you know. Proceed with caution. You can message me to ask what it is, if you want, and I'll absolutely tell you. Or just skip this story altogether, that's totally okay. Just don't go on reading if you think this is not gonna be good for you, okay? That wouldn't be very nice.

Jane blows on the candles and the lights go out entirely in the world until his eyes get used to the darkness. Soon the bright pink _16_  begins to stare back at him, the colors more a suggestion then something he’s actually seeing. The candles almost don't fit on the top of the tiny cupcake. The one only barely supports the six on the mound of white frosting so both don't tumble completely off. It’s hardly his most elegant set up, but it does the job.

He takes both numbers off the cake carefully, setting them aside, carefully peels off the wrapper, and takes another sip out of his cup before taking a bite of the cake. A grimace forms in his face at the taste of frosting. Too sweet, like his tea.

Charlotte would have loved it. She was more of a candy lover than he or her mother would ever be, he never knew where that came from. He remembers her excitement whenever he arrived with a bag of gummy worms, and the crossed arms and arched eyebrows on her mother’s face because _really, Patrick, candy before dinner?_ and _oh, c'mon, Angie, let the kid live a little._

He's glad they did, now. But she was a good kid. She always ate her vegetables.

Jane sits back against the headboard, finishes his tea and enjoys the warmth before his phone buzzes in his jacket. He puts the cup down on the night stand and fishes both the cellphone and a tiny bottle of whiskey out of his pocket.

“Lisbon.” He greets, not surprised by her call.

“Hey.” Her single word drips with unmasked worry. Lisbon doesn’t try to hide anymore, in fact makes a point in not doing so. He figures she started using his ability to read her to her own advantage as soon as she realized she could. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Listen.” He knows what she’s about to say because she’s two hours late, and she’s never late for this. “I’m not gonna be able to be with you, tonight. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” _Pants on fire, much, Patrick?_ sing-songs a voice in the back of his mind. It sounds a lot like his wife. He breaks the seal on the cap of the bottle and drinks to his own misfortune. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, we got a pretty ugly one, I thought I’d be able to get to you, but it’s a high profile one. Bertram’s on my back, you know how he is with this kind of stuff.”

“You want me there?"

“Jane.”

“I could help.”

"It’s not the night for that.” She sighs, sounding conflicted. “But I’m also not happy leaving you alone. I’ll be there in-“

“Nah, don’t bother.” He cuts. “Do your thing, I’m gonna be fine."

The line goes silent for a long minute. He counts. Drinks again.

“I’m gonna be fine, Lisbon."

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Solve your murder, do your triplicate forms or whatever they’re called. I’ll be right here in the morning. Exactly where you left me.” 

“I’ll talk you later, then. And call me if you need me." 

“I will.” He says.

“I mean it.”

Instead of ending the call he keeps the phone on his ear, knowing she’ll do the same. He can almost hear her breathing. “Take care. Don't make me regret not going, you hear me?”

He presses end call before making promises he can’t keep and leans back against the headboard. The screen flashes Lisbon’s picture before changing. She thought it was silly, but he insisted. It’s just easier to see who’s calling than stoping to read the name, he explained. _Lazy_  she answered.

“C’mon, give me a smile, Lisbon.” He said, back then, pointed the low resolution camera to her face.

She forced one and he laughed at the strained look on her face.

“Nah, not like that, I can’t have that when you call.” He reached for her face, index finger touching her cheek. “It has to reach your eyes.”

Lisbon dropped the forced smile and arched an eyebrow.

"C'mon." He poked at her cheek. "You have a cute little smile somewhere in there, let's see it."

"Stop that- Jane, stop." She dodged him, but his index found the edge of her lips and her nose and her cheek again. “ _Jane_."

And she was truly smiling, then. Laughing out loud while trying to escape from his insistence.

On the photo she's looking to the side, a little and cringing a little, but grinning happily, with his finger still connected to her face.

"Did you get what you wanted?" She recomposed herself, swatting his hand away and failing in pretending to not have fun.

"Yeah I did, I always do."

She rolled her eyes far into their sockets and her smile got brighter and bigger and his chest warmed. 

"Oh, hush."

Then her smile died down slowly. She tried for imperceptible and almost succeeded, but he could see a memory there. A memory of good days that turned bad really fast.

Thirteen year old Lisbon told herself a lot that _good days do not last, Teresa, it's gonna get bad again tomorrow_.

Feeling a wave of nausea, Jane drops his head back to the wall and finds himself more than just tipsy. His vision wavers and his heart beats wildly in his chest. He thumbs Lisbon’s contact on his phone and thinks that maybe he should call her. He should call to say he’s an idiot and he’s in trouble again and _I’m sorry, Lisbon, I fucked up._

“You’re doing nothing of the sort.” He hears the familiar voice and his head snap back up.

Dark eyes and dark hair greet him. The familiar gentle slope of her raised eyebrow makes him smile instantly.

“Angela?”

He watches as the curve of his lips is mirrored on hers.

“What were you expecting, Mother Teresa?"

“Saint Teresa.” He corrects.

She shrugs.

“Whatever."

“And no, I was not expecting her. But I should call her."

“You’re not calling her, are you out of your mind?” Angela laughs.

“I’m drugged and I’m drunk.” He explains, mockingly. “Can’t say I don't fit the description.”

“Oh, honey, even so.” Angela takes three steps closer and sits on the bed besides him. “Who _were_ you expecting?"

“Charlie. I wanted to say happy birthday. Why can’t I call Lisbon?”

The curve of Angela’s lips change quickly from a smirk to the kind and affectionate rise of her sweetest smiles. Like the real her used to do. She’s exactly what she should be, there’s nothing missing, nothing different. Her eyes have the flash of malice Angie’s used to have, her step has the grace and the stealth of a carnival kid that she never unlearned, even after a decade of an honest life. She’s look a little dangerous in the darkened room. A little bit like a bad choice.

“Don’t you think you’re enough of a problem as it is?” She tells him.

“That’s a cruel thing to say."

Angie hums in resigned agreement. She extends a hand to touch his cheek. It’s warm and he leans into her. Doesn’t question it.

“The truth often is.”

“Why Charlie’s not here?”

“What, you didn’t want to see me?” She teases.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He assures her mock fears. "I always want to see you.”

Her hand leaves his face to rest on his leg.

“She would’ve let you call. She likes Teresa a lot.”

“And you don’t?"

Angela swats on the air, amused by his answer.

"I like her well enough. I’m just a little more grounded to reality."

“I actually knew you, I didn’t know Charlotte."

“Something like that, yeah."

Jane watches, mesmerized, as the expression in her face change. Like with Charlotte, it’s so real. The heat on his thigh from her hand feels real. He can almost forget the cold sweat breaking in his forehead, the turning of his stomach. His heart skips a beat and he tries to take a deep breath. He can’t.

When things blur around him, he drops his head back on the wall.

“Angie. I'm in a lot of trouble now, please let me."

"She's in the middle of a murder investigation, and she’s already worried sick, you know that. There's a lot of people on your contact list, choose another one, why does it have to be her?

"She's more likely to not shoot me for it." 

Angela laughs.

“That was good. Really good. You're still sharp, it’s good news. But that's not the reason, is it? You could call 911, for Christ's sake."

Jane groans to mask his embarrassment. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I could. I will. But I owe her this much.”

Her indignation turns palpable.

“You owe her to not make yourself more of a mess. What’d you even think was gonna happen if she came here tonight to find you like this?”

Her words hammer on his head. The ceiling above his head turns and turns and--

“Angie-"

“ _Just say it_ , Patrick."

“I wouldn’t be drinking this thing if she was here, it’s _easier_ when she's here.” He’d scream it, but he’s not even sure he actually said it. He closes his eyes but can hear her sighing beside him and it’s not right, she’s dead—she’s dead, she’s dead, _she’s dead_. "There. Happy?" 

“I don’t know, are you?”

Jane wills himself to sit up straight; he runs his hands over the bed covers. 

“Angela, where’s my phone?"

“I’m an hallucination, not an apparition. I can’t move things around, Patrick.”

He fusses around for the phone again, tries under the pillows, fights a wave of nausea, gets up. The blood rushes out of his head to god knows where and he staggers.

“I need some air.”

Jane finds his balance with the help of the furniture. The room feels cramped, and he walk his crooked way to the balcony. His fingers grip the thin rail that separates him from the fall. The cool air makes it a little easier to take a full breath.

“There are easier solutions to your problems, you know? All of them.”

He sees Angie leaning forward to watch the movement on the street. The lights, the people, it’s all so far away. The first floor feels like the tenth. _It’s not_ , he remembers. _You’re high as a kite, and it’s not_.

”Tried that before, didn’t work very well for me."

“Yeah, of course not, you were locked up with people watching your every move twenty four hours a day.” She answers. ”Now, here? Here it’d be really, really, easy."

He shakes his head.

“Lisbon—"

“Oh,  _spare me_. She’ll be just fine without y-."

“Angie."

She rolls her eyes and points to his chest.

“Your pocket."

“What?"

“Your phone. You put it in your pocket. Who you're gonna call?"

She starts humming the Ghostbusters theme song and he laughs. His vision blurs the letters on the screen. He’s not sure what is what anymore, but Lisbon is first on his speed dial, and 911 is not a hard thing to type. He presses down on a number, but--

_Or maybe you shouldn’t call anyone._

Jane stops himself, wonders who said that? was-it-me, was-it-her, does it matter? His grip on the phone fails and the device falls down to the concrete below. His eyes follow the trajectory, watch as it hit the ground and break apart into tiny pieces. And then fall shut.

 

* * *

 

His stirs, still unaware of the pain, but aware of the cold air filling his lungs. It’s almost the same. He groans.

"Jane...?"

"Nononono." He slurs in instant recognition.  _Teresa, Teresa_ , such a blanket of a voice when she's soft like this. It’s instant comfort, like a cup of tea. "You shouldn't be here." 

"What the fuck have you've been doing?"

Her words contrast with the calmness her voice. She rarely swears, and she's not happy, but she's here. With him. In... Where is he, again?

"Where am I?"

"Mercy General."

Voice laced in worry and irritation and love. Good lord, she loves him. It’s always a surprise -- he keeps forgetting. Such a dumb decision for such a smart woman, _what were you thinking, Teresa?_

"Hospital, huh?” He knows his intended words but has no idea of what leaves his mouth. “I suppose the answers to your question is _drinking_.”

He laughs at the half truth. Ridiculous. All of this. Angela would be laughing. She wasn't one to take this kind of shit. She'd laugh and quirk an eyebrow and leave and find a clever way to make fun of him for the rest of the week.

Children of alcoholics have no such sense of humor.

Lisbon raises a hand to her face, cleaning up tears that he only sees now. Still smiling he raises his own to help, not expecting the added weight of whatever on his limb -- is that an IV feed? 

"What's this little fella doing here?" He stares at the fine tube, belatedly notices bandages on himself, the expressive lack of any sort of pain and the lagging in his thought process.

_The wonders of legal opiates_ , he thinks. What did he break, this time around? And more importantly, how?

Jane plants his other hand on the mattress to try standing upright to check himself and Lisbon’s face turns into a very specific kind of concern, one that’s closely related to fury. The world around him wavers. He dry heaves again. 

"You have a concussion, for Christ's sake, sit down."

He does, falling back without much control. 

"How are you here?” He asks.

"I'm your emergency contact." 

“ _Well, doesn’t that feels strangely intimate?_ ” Did he say that? “And what’s the emergency, exactly?”

“You're still half drunk, we’ll talk about it later. Just keep quiet, for a while, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"For you?" He smiles, laughs, even. His eyes fall shut again. He feels like falling, spiraling down forever. ”Anything." 

"Then rest for a while, please.” She sounds far, far, far. He doesn’t like it. 

"Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

There's a tentative weight on his arm for a second. It's grounding, emotionally, but it's also a rock on his spinning world and -- well, inertia, right? Everything abruptly stops and this time his stomach manages to produce something out.

 

* * *

  

Jane wakes up again at some point, to either formal consciousness or just his own awareness of it -- he's not sure. Lisbon is still beside him. He can feel the weight of her arm beside his on his mattress.

"You okay?" She asks.

She’s been learning to to pick up subtle changes in breath, he wonders if from him. Hopes so. But she’s never been bad with behavioral clues, not al all. She's been on bedsides and gunfights and accidents and one night stands before. It's quite the handy skill in a wide range of situations. With him, specially.

"I feel slightly less terrible.” He concedes.

"It's a start.”

"What happened?"

Lisbon draws a long breath and holds the air in her lungs for a second too long. He opens his eyes. Finds hers red rimmed and puffy. She smiles sadly at nothing in specific, worried, worried, worried. And something else. It’s not explicit on her face, but there’s something else.

"You really don't remember?"

Jane shakes his head.

"I must've been quite wasted last night."

She snorts a laugh.

“That's a gross understatement."

Ah. It's relief what he's picking up, hidden in the softness of her voice -- almost whispered, coming from under layers and layers of very well concealed fear.

There's that, too.

"You can tell me, Lisbon."

Her gaze falls to his hand and he follows. He's scratched and bruised, already turning purple. It's nothing too serious. Superficial cuts that would scab and heal without leaving a trace; tender skin from some sort of impact that he’ll be a little too wary to touch in the course of a few days. He’s been in worst shape. It'll all go away without too much noise.

She lifts her hand to his forearm and her index finger gingerly trace a particularly ugly gash that’s been closed with butterfly bandages. His heart monitor registers her touch as increasing rhythms of beats per minute. The silent room and the look on her face drown the fastening soft beeps.

"I was called a couple of hours after I talked to you." She starts, still studying his forearm, the tone and word choice of a police report. "They'd received a 911 call from the manager of your motel.

"He’d heard a weird noise and found you outside, passed out on the back street, so he called it in and the EMTs brought you here. You had a pretty severe concussion, a broken rib or two and god knows what mixed with a whole lot of alcohol on your bloodstream. I came straight here, but I called Cho to take a look at you room. Your window was open. No signs of struggle.”

She swallows dryly and her eyes well up.

“We figured you jumped.” She takes a deep breath, pauses for a second. The tears fall and she angrily swipes the back of her free hand on her cheeks. “You fucking genius jumped out of a first floor window. Doctors are trying to figure out how you managed not to break anything else.”

A smile forms on his lips and turns to laugh before he can do something about it. It is funny, how can it not be. Occasionally he gets things royally wrong, yes, but that?, that’s a world class of a record. 

Suicide is one hell of a thing to fuck up.

She somehow also finds it darkly amusing, and smiles sheepishly. It's a guilty smile, but he can work with that.

She confesses "I didn't think you'd ever take such a dramatic step."

In light of the revelation regarding his ribs, he tries not to shrug.

"I'm a showman, Lisbon. I'm a drama queen, if a low-key one."

"Low-key drama queen, that's one good way to put it."

"You should make note of that, put it on the eulogy.”

Her posture changes entirely, all hurt and censoring. 

"Don't say that."

"I'm just kidding." 

"Don't." The tears come back to her cheeks, and she cleans it up again. She looks her size for the first time since he met her, her head down, her breathing betraying the effort of her control.

"I probably didn't jump, Lisbon. I mean-- you know, I was out of my mind. I probably just fell, I--.”

She knows the dates that feel the worst. He hides for the anniversary of their deaths, but Teresa has been sharing his bottle on Charlie’s birthday for years now, as per her own insistence. He accepted the company without much resistance when she first offered, because he needed and enjoyed it, her reasons escaping him.

Now, knowing what he's looking at, the answer comes easily, clear in the unmistakable tint of guilt in her eyes. And she doesn't mean it, he knows it. Lisbon is too well adjusted, nowadays, to honestly feel like it's her fault. But like her flashes of hesitation to accept their good moments, this is one reflex of her past that will probably never go away.

“You’re the one who found your dad.” He realizes, out loud, and instantly regrets it.

Lisbon nods. He notices how she swallows a sob, almost wishes she could just let herself cry. Ugly wailing would be comprehensible and cathartic for both of them, but instead her rehearsed bravado threatens to break him little by little. Her skin on his burn a track above his veins. He figures the guilt he feels might be etched there for the rest of his life.

Jane turns his hand and captures hers, her fingers between his. He squeezes and his own voice fails. “I’m so sorry, Lisbon.”

They hold each other's gaze. 

“I don’t want to have to find you, too. Please, Jane."

"No, never. Never." He rushes to answer her. He knows what she's thinking. She's thinking _what happens when you find Red John? What happens when you kill him, what happens when you finally realize that it won't change a thing?_ and his chest hurt with the need to reassure her, convince her, that whatever happens, that is not a viable outcome, not anymore. _He needs to explain why it's not, anymore_ , and says "You're here, I would never. I'd never, I promise."

"It's okay, I believe you." _It's a bad day, but tomorrow might not be one, I'll be fine, he’ll be fine._ "It's alright." 

"No, it's not. You know it's not, I'm sorry."

His honesty prompts her own.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Jane?"

"I don't know. I don't know. You know what day it is. I was sad, that’s all. I just fell.”

"You've been drinking belladonna, again."

He swallows dryly. Of course they found it. They had to pump his stomach to prevent a alcoholic coma and _surprise_.

He’s outdone himself this time.

"Yes."

A wide range of emotions cross her face, too fast for him to read in his current state. She makes herself clear, for his benefit; says "I want to kill you right now."

“Meh.” He smiles, wide and silly. “That would defeat the purpose of this entire conversation."

"Jane." 

"I'm sorry."

“No, you're not."

"I am. You think you'll ever believe me?"

"I'm never sure what to believe when it comes to you."

“Yes you do.” He raises the hand that's clasped to her, feels the broken ribs complain, finally. He guides her knuckles to his lips, a light caress, a lighter kiss “You’ve always known. Forgive me."

"Not now, I can't."

"Take your time." He kisses her knuckles again, a little more sure of himself. His lips linger.

“You should’ve called me.” She says, finally.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“And yet, here we are.” Lisbon rests her focus on their hands. Her thumb moves a short length on the side of his finger and she shakes her head in a denial that’s not addressed to his words. “This is messy, Jane.”

Of course it is, he answers silently with a bright smile he knows she loves. He’s a mess and he’s in love with her and it’s been a goddamned decade since he opened that door but he can’t forget the metallic tang that poisoned the air on the night he found his wife dead.

He wants to tell her _you really should go_ , or _please, go home_ or _I’ve put you through hell enough as it is_. But their hands are still clasped, his posture is completely turned to her, his eyes won’t leave her face -- his lips are still on her fingers, for Christ’s sake. His entire body language screams _don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go_. He’s not being subtle.

He’ll trust Teresa’s good track record in making the right choice. Let him deal with his issues by himself. She can put blankets over him when he sleeps at the CBI, she can coax him to stop spending nights over Red John’s mark, she can bend her rules and her morals and her codes for him. She does it because he lets her. What she can’t do is have him kiss her skin while he’s still not doing it on lazy weekend evenings on her couch, and he understands that.

Life and death situations, drunken and drugged nights -- she was too young when she learned to not trust the promises that came after a punch. It’s not fair, and he believes in some kind of justice.

“I have to go.” She says.

He nods. Her hand slips off his and she bends to kiss his temple. It’s bittersweet. It burns less than the line of regret on his wrist.

When she takes a step back he steels for her absence, but she lingers; hand on his arm and an air of expectancy. He sees in her hesitancy that she doesn’t think this is fair, either.

And all he has to do is ask.

Angela and Teresa, they’re almost mirror images of each other, he realizes. One soft where the other is tough, accepting where the other is snarky. But both expect the same from him.

“Hey.” He says, taking Lisbon’s hand again before she can turn around. She gives in to his tug and comes closer. “You think you can you come and pick me up when they let me out of this joint?”

She snorts, her lips in a pout of disbelief, but there, in the right corner -- a cute little button of a smile.

“Yeah, you wish.”

“I don’t feel like being alone today.” He explains, half groaning and suddenly shy of his own words.

Lisbon rolls her eyes a little more theatrically than usually. She pretends to think, makes a show in looking skeptical.

He's rubbing off on her.

“Fine.” She answers. “But only because it’s a disaster when you’re left unsupervised.” 

The corner of their mouths bloom at the same time. She tries to hide it, looks down.

“See you later.” She says, giving his hand a light tug. 

“Please do.”

Jane gives her hand a last squeeze. And let’s her go.

**Author's Note:**

> I binge-watched the whole show in, like, a week, and I was emotional, so it's not meant to be a serious fanfic. I just had to do something about that belladonna thing they left hanging on the end of the episode. They have a way in making fucked up things feel light in this show, but after I researched the symptoms I realized a belladonna high would be more of a hellish trip of doom.
> 
> I probably made it too dramatic, tho. I always do. If anyone has any idea on how not to, feel free to tell me, I could use some notes on that.
> 
> I wish I knew more what I was doing. Jane is a messy character to write, not to say anything about Lisbon. They give me that 'what am I even doing?' feel.
> 
> Despite all possible problems, I hope it was fun to read just as much as it was to write. If you liked it, consider telling me what you enjoyed, and if you didn't, tell me why, too. It's always nice to read the comments, and a great help, too.


End file.
